The Tango Irene
by tepid sponge bath
Summary: Wherein John helps Sherlock practice the tango, and can't quite help himself, even if Sherlock is thoroughly smitten by The Woman.  To the tune of Rent's "Tango Maureen."


**Disclaimer: **I make no claims on any part of the BBC's _Sherlock _or on the lyrics and music of _Rent._ Also, I do not profit from this financially.

**Note:**Written as a fill for this prompt on the kink meme: "Sherlock and John. Dancing tango. I need this like burning." And I went and turned it into a song fic based on _Rent's_ "The Tango Maureen," because it fit, and Joanne even had a coat and Irene _is _American after all. Pardon the descriptions, dancing is not my area!

**The Tango Irene**

"Godfrey Norton." Sherlock spat the name out like a curse. "_Godfrey Norton_. A _barrister."_

"It's a respectable profession, Sherlock," said John.

"And what does Irene Adler suddenly want with 'respectable?'" he snarled at the sound system they were ostensibly trying to fix. "I don't know why I bother - I should just leave, show her what it's like..."

John went over to the microphone in the middle of the small stage as Sherlock continued to mutter sullenly to himself in that vein. It had been just a few months since John had met Irene, and it had just taken all of two seconds for him to realize that his flatmate was _smitten_ by the woman. _The_ Woman, as he would say. John hadn't expected it of Sherlock Married-To-My-Work Holmes.

And now _she_ was getting married. Well, not _now_, but soon, and Sherlock was tying himself into knots over it. (John hoped she was keeping careful watch over that Godfrey Norton of hers - he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to try poison.) _Now_ - or later that evening rather - she was going to attend a party that, owing to circumstances she wouldn't mention while John was in the room, she couldn't say no to, and that, owing to various misadventures in the recent past, she wasn't supposed to get out of alive. She had showed up at 221B to ask Sherlock for help.

_"Get your precious Godfrey to do something about it," he had snapped, throwing himself onto the sofa in preparation for the blackest of sulks.___

_"Please, Sherlock." She had looked at him with those large eyes of hers, not really pleading but as close as she would ever get to it. She was a proud woman, and it was a constant source of wonder to John that her ego and Sherlock's managed to fit their small set of rooms. "I wouldn't bother you if I could get out of it on my own, but I can't. I need your help."_

And that was all she had needed to do to make Sherlock say yes. The woman could play him like a violin. He'd even gone as far as agreeing to be her date for the evening, to, in fact, dance with her. One dance. A tango.

It was all part of the plan - her plan, really. Inelegant, Sherlock said, and overly dramatic, but it was supposed to be effective. The lights would go off at an opportune moment when she was on the dance floor - all the lights in the building - and by the time they were turned on again, she would be gone. She'd left it to Sherlock to find a way to make it happen, and Sherlock had taken John along with him, mostly, John suspected, so that he'd have someone to rant at. For John's part, all he wanted was to see Sherlock dance the tango. He had a pretty nice mental picture in his head of those long legs of his kicking and cavorting in the stiff, complicated patterns of the dance, and he liked it, and wanted to learn how close to the truth his mental picture was (though in reality, Sherlock would be dancing with a woman in high heels and a clingy dress, not an anonymous man in a dapper suit).

John bit his lip. Nearly indecent thoughts of flatmate, not good. Especially since the flatmate in question would be able to tell, but Sherlock - thankfully - seemed to be more occupied with trying to get the sound system to short out.

"The samples can delay but the cables...there's another way, I know it." He waved a hand at John, directing him to the microphone. "Say something, anything."

John looked at the microphone, suddenly overcome by the blankness of mind experienced by sound system testers everywhere. "Test one, two, three?" he said.

"Anything but that. Don't you have any imagination at all?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "This is weird."

"It's weird," agreed his flatmate.

"Very weird," said John into the mike.

"_Fucking weird_," snapped Sherlock. "_I'm so mad that I don't know what to do.__  
__Fighting with microphones,__  
__Missing her dulcet tones__  
__And to top it all off-_"

"_I'm with you._" John put a sympathetic hand on the consulting detective's shoulder.  
"_Feel like going insane?__  
__Got a fire in your brain?__  
__And you're thinking of drinking gasoline?_"

"As a matter of fact-"

"Sherlock, I know this act.  
_It's called the Tango Irene._"

"What?"

"You do it every time you see her-  
_The Tango Irene__  
__It's a dark, dizzy merry-go-round__  
__As she keeps you dangling-_"

"You're wrong."

"_Your heart she is mangling_."

Sherlock sneered. "It's different with me."

"Shut up. You're not that cold. I see how you sulk when she leaves.  
_And you toss and you turn__  
__'Cause her cold eyes can burn__  
__Yet you yearn and you churn and rebound._"

The world's only consulting detective sagged, twisted his mouth into a wry, ironic smile. "_I think I know what you mean_," he admitted, flipping a switch. Music started to play. "_The Tango Irene._"

Sherlock stepped off the stage and walked - no, _sashayed_ - to the middle of the dance floor, shrugging his coat off as he went. He turned snappishly on his heel when he got to the middle of the vast empty space, and tossed the coat away with a flourish.

"Can you dance, John?"

"Sorry?" John had been rather caught up in _watching_ Sherlock. Seeing those hips of his move in those well-cut trousers was doing funny things to his brain, and he wanted to be sure that what he'd just heard wasn't part of some incredibly vivid invitation-to-erotica daydream.

"Can - you - dance? I need a partner."

Damn the man. Not "Will you dance?" but "Can you dance?" because there was the unspoken assumption that John Watson, presuming that he had the slightest knowledge of the kicking-up of heels, would agree to dance, no questions asked. Well, John thought grudgingly, Sherlock _was_ right.

"A little," he said, taking off his jacket and draping it carefully over a one of the speakers.

"Good. I need to figure out the timing." Sherlock threw out a hand, not so much inviting John over as striking a pose on the floor. "A rehearsal is always useful. And," he added, making a face as John walked - truly walked, a little nervous and shifty, nothing fancy - towards him, "I need to refresh this a little - it's been a while since I last found it useful."

They stood in facing each other for a little while, Sherlock calculating, John feeling a little awkward and out of place. Then Sherlock took one of John's hands, positioned the other one on his shoulder, and placed his other hand high on his flatmate's back. He applied a bit of pressure there, moving them fractionally closer, and John, suddenly aware of his bearing, straightened his back, squared his shoulders. And they began to move.

Step, step, with John going backward, sweep.

"The Tango Irene, eh?" Sherlock asked.

"The Tango Irene." John resisted the urge to look at his feet to make sure he was getting it right. Step, step, half-turn, _sweep_, step. "_Has she ever pouted her lips and called you 'Sherly?'_"

"Never."

John tilted his head a little, conceding a point, as Sherlock did a bit of fancy footwork around and between his legs. "_But you've sometimes doubted a kiss or two?_"

"All the time. This is spooky. John, _how_ do you know so much about this?"

The doctor grinned, smug that the tables seemed to be turned for once. He spun Sherlock around. "Three continents, remember? And you're not the only one who can observe things. _I've seen you swoon when she walks through the door - every time!_" he snapped as Sherlock opened his mouth to refute the fact.

"I thought I was being cautious. _And she moons over other men-_"

"_More than moons_," corrected John.

"_I'm getting nauseous._" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed. "You'll have to let me lead, John."

"Right, sorry." John shifted to let Sherlock pull him across the dance floor. This wan't bad, actually, he thought, as he tried to keep up with Sherlock's steps. Well, he liked it, no, all right, he was bloody well enjoying himself, shut up and thanks for asking.

So he let Sherlock steer him - step, quick step, turn - into a pose, John's left arm and his right up and angled sideways, with Sherlock forming one perfect half of the picture: one leg was bent just so at the knee, close to John, in John's space, actually, and the other extended elegantly in one long line away from him, complete with an expression of fierce concentration that could just be mistaken for smouldering. The ex-army doctor did his best to match him.

"Where'd you learn to tango?" he asked, knees shaking as he maintained the position.

"With the Spanish ambassador's daughter, at Mycroft's house, when her father was visiting." Sherlock slid up, spun John, made the spin end in a dip. "And you?"

"With - with Harry because she wanted to learn so she could dance with Clara."

Sherlock nodded, entirely in time with the music. He pulled John up, started to drive him backward, step, step, kick, faster steps, pause.

"It's hard to do this backwards," said John, grateful for the breather.

"I'm told you should try it in _heels_."

They continued without speaking for a while. Sherlock's face took on an expression that made him look as if he'd tasted something especially bitter - John had a pretty shrewd idea just who had told him to try it in heels - and he began to move with increasing violence, making each step resound as though he was trying to stomp holes in the floor. John wondered if he had noticed that his grip had gotten tighter, and that he was, in fact, now holding John quite a lot closer than was strictly proper for the dance.

"She cheated," he snarled, bringing his feet together with a particularly violent stamp. "_She cheated!_"

"Irene cheated?" This was news to John. He hadn't realized that the love-hate thing between Sherlock and Irene Adler had ever been serious enough to have anything count as cheating.

"_Fucking cheated!_" Sherlock dropped John's hand, pulled away without really letting go, tossed his head melodramatically so that he was facing away from his partner. Colleague. Flatmate. It ended in another pose. "_I'm defeated, I should give up right now._"

"_Got to look on the bright side with all of your might._" Liberties: taking them, thought John, drawing a hand along Sherlock's jawline to make the man face him again. In addition to the liberties, he was also taking the lead.

Step, step, stomp, turn, sweep, alarmingly high kick from Sherlock.

"_I'd fall for her still, anyhow,_" he said plaintively.

"_When you're dancing her dance,_" commiserated John,  
"_You don't stand a chance__  
__Her grip of romance makes you fall_"  
-He dipped Sherlock, surprised at how smoothly he managed it - he weighed less than he thought he would, or maybe was just remarkably light on his feet - supporting his flatmate with an arm just beneath his shoulder blades-  
"_But you think might as well-_"

Sherlock pulled himself upright, spun an arm's length away from John so that their outstretched hands just touched briefly at the fingertips. The concentrated smoulder was back in his eyes.

"_I'll a-tango to hell_," he said, moving his feet so that his hips traced a vertical figure-eight in the air, "_But at least I'll have tangoed at all!_"

He grabbed John's hand and swung back into his flatmate's arms.

_The Tango Irene,_" he said, taking back the lead with a sweep-step-mad footwork-stomp, "_Got to dance till your diva is through_-"

John followed, and it felt like he was getting the hang of it. He attempted a bit of footwork of his own. "_You pretend to believe her-_"

"_'Cause in the end I can't leave her_." Sherlock flung an arm out, fingers curling and wrist turned in an imploring, graceful grasp to an invisible Irene.

John yanked his flatmate back, trying to shake some sense into him. "_And the end it will come-_"

Sweep, step-step, stamp, turn, kick.

"_Still I have to play dumb-_"

"_Till you're glum and you're bum and turned blue._" Or rather, John thought, 'until you start shooting at the framed picture of her that I know you have hidden in the flat.'

"_Why do I love when she's mean?_" Sherlock let John spin him around again, following quite compliantly as if the fight had leaked out of him, though he still stepped lively enough.

"_And she can be so obscene._" John pulled his flatmate in, and somehow things ended with Sherlock leaning against him with a leg hooked on his waist.

"_My Irene..._" he said, drawing the edge of his hand through the air, almost but not quite touching John's face. The banked heat of his expression was still visible behind what John thought had to be the most pitiful puppy dog eyes known to man.

"_The Tango Irene._" John shook his head. Shocking, really, what a woman could do to a good man. And he realized that he was standing in the middle of an empty room with a consulting detective - slightly untidy from all the dancing - effectively draped about his person, and it was similarly shocking, what that could do to a good man.

John kissed him then, quickly before he could change his mind, on the mouth.

There was just enough time for him to see the look of surprise on Sherlock's face before the lights went out.


End file.
